Chapter 4 #2
The room was elegant and richly appointed, awash in warm light from the windows.
A four-poster canopy bed dominated the space, its silken curtains drawn back to reveal crisp linen sheets.
A carved settee sat at the foot of the bed, and a marble fireplace occupied one wall, its mantel adorned with gilded sconces.
Heavy drapes in shades of ivory framed the arched windows, and beneath her feet lay a floral-patterned carpet.
“This is to be my bedchamber?” Dorothea asked in disbelief.
“It is.”
Dorothea slowly stepped farther into the room, running her hand lightly along the edge of the bed’s canopy post. It felt surreal, like stepping into a life that had belonged to someone else.
Then, she noticed a door tucked neatly into the side wall, its surface painted the same color as the paneling.
Her eyes lingered. “That door… where does it lead?”
“To Lord Warwicke’s bedchamber,” Mrs. Cameron replied matter-of-factly as she moved to the dressing table. “Now, let’s see about your hair.”
Dorothea crossed the room, sitting slowly, as her eyes strayed to the connecting door once more.
Would he come to her tonight?
Would she want him to?
She wasn’t sure which question unsettled her more.
Dominic tugged at the folds of his cravat with growing irritation, muttering curses under his breath.
The idea of enduring a formal dinner with Dorothea rankled more than he cared to admit.
Before this farce of a marriage, mealtimes had been comfortably informal.
Most evenings, he would request a tray be brought to his study, allowing him to eat while poring over estate ledgers or correspondence.
It was solitude. It was peace. It was a far cry from the stilted pleasantries he would now be forced to exchange with a young woman he barely knew.
Behind him, his ever-efficient valet, Hale, bent to retrieve the discarded garments strewn across the floor. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
Dominic stepped back from the mirror, adjusting the line of his coat. “Not at this time. I won’t be long at dinner.”
Hale gave a slight nod. “Very good, my lord.”
Dominic’s gaze drifted to the adjoining door that connected his chamber to Dorothea’s. The thought made his jaw tighten. He gestured towards it. “See that this door remains locked at all times. I don’t want Lady Warwicke entering my chambers—for any reason.”
A bemused look came to Hale’s expression. “If that is your wish.”
“It is,” Dominic said firmly, already moving towards the hallway. The request might have seemed harsh—odd, even—but he had no desire to complicate matters further. The annulment he sought depended on clear boundaries, and he meant to keep them.
As he stepped into the corridor, movement caught his eye. Dorothea emerged from her bedchamber, pausing to close the door behind her. She hadn’t noticed him yet, giving him a rare, unguarded moment to observe her.
She wore a gown of deep blue, the color accentuating her fair skin and the delicate line of her shoulders.
Her red hair, arranged in an elegant coif, was crowned with artful curls that framed her face.
She was, undeniably, a striking young woman.
But beauty alone meant nothing. They were strangers bound by circumstance, not affection, and he had no intention of pretending otherwise.
“Dorothea,” he said softly, careful not to startle her.
Despite his efforts, she jumped slightly and turned with wide eyes. “Dominic,” she breathed, recovering quickly.
He closed the distance between them by a step. “Seeing as we are both heading to the dining room, may I escort you?”
Relief softened her features. “That would be lovely. Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure which way to go.”
“You need only ask,” he replied, offering his arm.
She took it, though her touch was tentative. “Thank you. It will be nice to dine in the dining room for a change.”
“You didn’t dine with your brother?”
Dorothea shook her head, her voice quiet. “A tray was always brought to my room. He preferred to eat with his wife… without me.”
The pain beneath her calm words struck him unexpectedly. Dominic had no particular fondness for his new wife, but hearing the way she’d been treated by her family stirred a pang of something akin to sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t sure the words helped.
She offered a faint smile. “He wasn’t entirely heartless. He did allow me to keep my horse.”
“At least there was some comfort in that.”
“I do love my horse,” she said with a touch more warmth. “May I bring him to your stables?”
Dominic nodded. “Of course. I assume you ride, then?”
“I do,” she replied quickly.
“Then continue to do so. I would ask only that you take two grooms with you when you go out.”
She blinked at him, surprised. “Are you in earnest?”
“I am.”
Her face lit up. “Thank you!”
Curiosity pricked at him. “Did your brother not allow you to ride?”
“No. He preferred I remain indoors. I think… I think he was embarrassed by me.”
Dominic frowned. “Embarrassed? Why?”
She shrugged, a small, sad gesture. “He said that I asked too many questions. Had too many opinions.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“To my brother, yes,” Dorothea replied. “He felt that women should be seen, but not heard.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“I thought so, as well.”
He would’ve asked more, but they arrived at the dining room. He guided her to the chair at the far end of the long, polished table and waited for her to be seated before claiming his own place opposite her. Within moments, footmen entered and placed bowls of steaming soup before them.
The quiet clink of spoons against porcelain was the only sound for some time, until Dominic set his spoon aside and cleared his throat. “I was hoping to speak with you about… the consummation of our marriage.”
Dorothea dabbed her lips with her napkin and met his gaze. “I expected as much. I know it’s my duty, but I do hope you’ll be patient. I have a general understanding of… of such things, from time spent on a farm.”
“I assure you, the act between a man and woman is rather different than livestock.”
She lifted her chin. “Regardless, I am your wife. I understand men have… urges.”
He nearly laughed at the absurdity of the exchange, but her serious expression held him in check. “One would hope women have urges as well.”
“I wouldn’t know, my lord.”
He leaned slightly to the side to allow a footman to collect his empty bowl. “As enlightening as this conversation is, I was actually inquiring whether we had already consummated the marriage.”
“Oh. No, of course not. You were far too ill.”
“I thought as much, but I wanted to confirm it.”
She reached for her glass. “Do you wish to… tonight?”
“No.”
Her brows knit. “Is there a reason?”
Dominic hesitated. He wasn’t ready to reveal his pursuit of annulment, not yet. “No reason,” he lied.
“Do you think you won’t enjoy it?”
He chuckled softly. “That’s not my concern.”
“Then what is?”
The amusement left his voice. “May we not simply eat in silence?”
Dorothea lowered her eyes. “Of course.”
They resumed eating, the silence between them now charged with something brittle and tense. Dominic hadn’t meant to be curt, but he had no desire to encourage a deeper connection with her. Not when it would only complicate things.
After a few minutes, Dorothea looked up, her voice tentative. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I simply prefer quiet during meals.”
“Oh.” She paused. “But if I did offend you, I hope you’ll tell me. We are married.”
He scoffed, unable to help himself. “Only in the legal sense. This is no true marriage. We barely know each other.”
“I know enough,” she replied. “You were loyal to your men. My father admired you. You were brave. You even risked your life to save your comrades—”
Dominic’s hand came down hard against the table, the sharp sound echoing in the room. “I do not wish to discuss this. Not with you.”
“I did not mean to offend you—”
He cut her off with a hard shake of his head. “You think you understand me? You don’t. You have no right to speak about what you cannot possibly comprehend.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He should have stopped. But the pain was too near the surface. He rose and snapped, “I think it might be best if we avoided one another for the time being.”
She flinched. “But we’re married.”
“For now, yes,” he said coldly.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
Dominic clenched his jaw. “Nothing that you need to concern yourself with.”
Dorothea stood and placed her napkin neatly on the table. “Then I believe I shall retire early, my lord.”
He watched her walk from the room with her head high and her back straight. A part of him wanted to call her back—to apologize, perhaps. But he remained still.
This was for the best.
So why did he feel like such an arse?
Dominic sank heavily back into his chair, the weight of his own anger and guilt pressing down on him like a leaden coat. He raked a hand through his hair and reached blindly for his glass.
How had the evening veered so wildly off course? It had begun with the simple intent of polite civility—awkward, yes, but manageable. And yet, here he sat, stewing in regret.
He knew exactly where it had all gone wrong.
The talk of war.
Blast it all! Those memories cut deeper than any blade.
The wound hadn’t dulled with time. It bled still, unseen but constant, tormenting him with every breath, every heartbeat.
Every hour of every cursed day. It haunted him in his dreams and stalked him in his waking moments. There was no escape. No forgetting.
“Botheration,” he muttered through gritted teeth, rising abruptly to his feet.
The dining room felt suffocating now—too many memories, too many words he wished he could take back.
He turned and strode towards the rear of the townhouse, the sound of his boots echoing dully against the floorboards.
He needed something stronger than wine. Something to quiet the noise in his head.
Something to erase the look of pain on Dorothea’s face.
Heaven help him, that expression had gutted him.
What had she expected of him? That he’d be gentle? Attentive? That he would somehow transform into the sort of husband young girls dreamed about in the pages of novels and poetry?
He was none of those things. And she, poor girl, hadn’t realized it yet.
That was the real problem.
Dorothea had a kind heart—a tender, open thing that wore compassion like a mantle.
She extended it freely, even to someone like him, who had done nothing to deserve it.
People like her… they didn’t belong with men like him.
He would ruin her. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.
But in the end, he would break her spirit, just as his own had been broken long ago.
It would not end well.
Not for her.
Not for him.